Desperate Measures
by NicoleKrystina
Summary: Daryl Dixon has a certain public image that he is expected to uphold. When he unleashes his temper on a photographer, his manager brings in a new publicist to reign him in. Enter Beth Greene: publicist extraordinaire. Will the reality of Daryl Dixon leave her wanting more than he can provide, or will their working relationship lead them both to something they always longed for?
1. I: Have a Piece of American Dream

AN: Thanks for the love on i'm the last pretty girl (you're the last decent man) everyone! Here's yet another AU that I hope everybody enjoys. Once again, I don't own any of the canon content or characters. Sorry for any mistakes. I am the sole editor of this piece so my eyes are probably weary.

Desperate Measures

Chapter I: Have a Piece of American Dream

"I quit! I can't take it anymore! You're on your own, Dixon," the flustered publicist roared, the heels of his dress shoes clunking against the granite floors as he slammed the door behind him.

"Please, let's talk about this!" Daryl heard Rick Grimes call out from his perch on the onyx leather sofa, but the publicist (Daryl could never quite remember his name) was already gone, likely to never return.

At the sight of the slamming door, Grimes emitted a sigh that relayed his feelings of carrying the weight of the world on his weary shoulders. Daryl grimaced at the sound, avoiding Rick's gaze and running a hand through his unkempt brown locks. The gesture revealed his guilt more clearly than anything he could have said. It was a nervous gesture, a tick that he had picked up as a child when his mama would catch him lying to her or his father found out that he had been skipping class to neck with a girl in the school parking lot. Two decades later, Daryl still found himself feeling like a young boy about to be scolded.

Perhaps it was the distraught look on Rick's face that always brought about the guilt trip, Daryl mused. His publicist had been an asshole, so he really didn't feel any remorse about making the guy up and quit. Daryl did regret, however, making his best friend's life more difficult than necessary. The guy already had enough to deal with, what with having to pay alimony to the ex-wife that he was still in love with, and continuing to fight for the right to see his own children on weekends. He certainly didn't need any more shit hitting the fan on Daryl's account.

Rick strode across Daryl's spacious living room in the same way that a restless panther would stalk the plains in hopes of discovering some quarry he had missed upon previous inspection. He scraped a hand across his grizzled beard before turning to Daryl, exasperation etching lines into his face and hardening his expression.

"Why, Daryl? This is the fourth publicist that you've chased away in two years! Couldn't you have just listened to his advice?" The older man sank onto the couch beside Daryl, rubbing his eyes before gazing blearily at his client.

Daryl shrugged nonchalantly, leaned back into the cushions to better assess his friend's expression. "That reporter was encroachin' on my personal property. On the red carpet, the paparazzi can snap as many photos as they need to pay the rent. PR events are fair game. I don' have a problem with that. When they're 'round my building—where I live and go to escape everyone—then all bets are off. The guy deserved what he got. He was askin' for it."

Rick raised his eyebrows in challenge. "You broke his nose and knocked two of his teeth loose! He could sue, and he might very well be justified in doing so. Surely the publicist's advice to avoid physical confrontations with the paparazzi at all costs was valid?"

"No matter what some city-slicking, hotshot publicist may think, I got a code. I don't throw my fists around for nothin'. I only went for the guy 'cause he was in my private space. I protect what's mine, and that includes my privacy. He was trespassing, and that ain't alright with me. I'm sorry, but I'm not gonna listen to someone who tells me that I have to knuckle under and let the press walk all over me. I'm sorry if that makes your job difficult, Rick; I really am. There's just nothin' I can do to change that." The older man answered, his voice gruff and his accent becoming thicker with sincerity.

Daryl had never been very eloquent when it came to expressing his feelings, but for Rick he tried to be. The man was his oldest friend and closest confidant. They had known each other since they were old enough to get into trouble, and they had been inseparable ever since. Naturally, when Daryl had been discovered by a local talent agency in their hometown—the scout had been looking for actors to play minor roles in a small production—Rick had immediately encouraged him to audition for the role, had even gone with him into Atlanta to wish him luck. Daryl had gotten the part, and from there his career had skyrocketed. What Daryl had deemed to be a two-bit role as a redneck trucker had catapulted him into the limelight, and after finishing college, Rick had taken the position of Daryl's manager without hesitation. He had been by his side ever since.

It had taken some adjusting for Daryl to become used to all the attention that he now received, his life becoming increasingly unfamiliar with every magazine cover and meet-and-greet that came his way. He didn't mind signing autographs for his fans—they were the lifeblood of his occupation, after all—but he often ached for the quiet life that he had always imagined for himself. He had always dreamt of opening up a little garage in some middle-of-nowhere town, where he could fix up vintage motorcycles and be left alone to his hunting and his own thoughts. Now, situated in an extremely overpriced loft in Manhattan where a parking spot costed more than a mid-sized sedan, Daryl found himself constantly restless and edgy. Though the loft was large enough to fit a family of five comfortably, the actor often felt like a caged animal without enough room to roam. He was used to being a wild thing, and captivity was not something that had settled comfortably in the pit of his stomach. His enviable view of Central Park only reinforced his feelings of seeing freedom but always being just out of its reach.

Rick tried his best to give Daryl his space, allow him time to himself, but his job was demanding and he had expectations to fill. On occasions such as the one that presented itself today, when Daryl had already been experiencing a restless spell for several weeks, the actor hadn't been up for polite conversation. The satisfying crunch of cartilage under his fist had gone a long way to easing the tension in his shoulders.

With that thought, Daryl brought his attention back to his exhausted best friend, who was currently squeezing the bridge of his nose as if to wish away a headache fit for an elephant. His jaw was tense, as if gritting his teeth against the amount of work ahead of him.

"I'm going to go make a few calls, see if I can find another publicist for you as soon as possible. Someone is going to need to run damage control if there's any hope of making your right hook look like it was warranted. In the meantime, don't go anywhere until I can get someone over here to release a statement. Order some takeout, take a nap; I don't care. Just don't leave this apartment," Rick ordered, rising from his seat and pulling his beloved iPhone out of his back pocket.

On his way out the door Rick turned, phone to his ear. "The prospect of managing you would terrify a lesser man, Daryl Dixon."

Daryl shrugged his leather clad shoulders before walking to the freezer, finding a bag of frozen peas to ice his swollen knuckles. "Guess I'm glad you stuck around, then."

With a quiet grunt of affection, Daryl nodded for Rick to close the door and get back to work. After a few minutes of assuaging the pain in his fingers with the help of the peas and two dry-swallowed Aspirin, Daryl made his way up the staircase to his bedroom.

Daryl kicked off his boots at the foot of his bed, draped his worn leather jacket over the sturdy armchair in the corner of the room before shucking off his jeans—for Armani, they scratched like hell—and falling face first onto the mattress. For the amount of time that it took Daryl to fall into slumber, his thousand-thread-count sheets could have been a bed of nails and he wouldn't have noticed.

Beth Greene was shopping for wedding-night lingerie with her sister, Maggie, when she received the call from Rick Grimes offering her the position of Daryl Dixon's publicist. It wasn't her wedding night, of course. She was simply being the dutiful maid of honour. _La Perla_ had already delivered on her share of overpriced lingerie, her loot now sitting on her lap, cleverly wrapped in a discreet ivory bag where it would remain until Beth had an excuse to wear it. The items she had chosen were delicate, feminine to the utmost, and were destined to remain unseen until further notice.

If it hadn't been for Maggie, Beth wouldn't have spent three-hundred dollars on lingerie. However, she also wouldn't have already been halfway across town when she answered Rick's frantic request. She easily accepted the offer to meet him and her perspective client at Daryl's loft on the Lower East Side, as she secretly coveted the knowledge of what the reclusive Daryl Dixon's home looked like. She could easily imagine that it was infinitely nicer than her closet-sized walk-up in the Village. She loved New York City, the whirl and flash of the traffic and the idea that one was never truly alone there. However, she didn't agree that what she paid in rent to her landlord for the privilege of living there was totally justified.

It had been with only a moment's hesitation that she had agreed to abandon her sister's mission, wishing Maggie luck and calling out a promise to call her later to see how the shopping venture went as she rushed out the door of the boutique. Her sister had replied distractedly that she didn't really need her help, and that it wasn't like Beth knew anything about what her fiancé liked in bed anyway.

As she caught the subway to take her uptown, she checked her phone once again to make sure that she was heading in the right direction. She had promised Rick that she would be there in thirty minutes, and she didn't want to sabotage the validity of her word simply because she hadn't thought to get directions.

Beth ran a hand through her tousled blonde hair before placing her black bowler hat onto her head once again. She adjusted the wayfarer sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, slouching back into the hard plastic seat beneath her. Her scuffed mahogany ankle boots gleamed dully in the artificial light of the subway car as she crossed her ankles in front of her, trying to minimize the amount of people that were able to make a grab for the handbag she had slung onto her lap. She had decided to leave her recent purchases in Maggie's capable hands, as she doubted she would seem professional with a bag full of lingerie between her fingers.

She had only a few minutes to worry that her outfit—a white tee, paired with a grey and maroon cardigan and black high-waisted shorts—were too casual before the subway doors opened in a gust of warm air and she was back on the street.

The apartment building itself was dull-bricked and unremarkable; that was Beth's first clue that there was serious money to be made on what was inside. The blonde also remarked that the residents could assuredly afford the price of living in such an establishment.

A doorman in a subtle uniform asked what her business was in the building, and she replied that she was there to interview for the position of Daryl Dixon's publicist. The doorman had laughed and said that that position seemed to have an incredible turn-around time before opening the doors and giving her directions to the elevator.

She pressed the button for the seventh floor with a swoop in her stomach, her nerves making her fingers clumsy and unreliable. Beth didn't understand why she was suddenly so nervous; it wasn't as if she hadn't been in a celebrity's home before. In fact, she was currently managing two other clients with great enthusiasm. In theory, the prospect of doing PR for Daryl Dixon shouldn't phase her in the slightest.

In practice, however, she was shaking like a leaf because he was _Daryl_ _Freaking Dixon_. She had had a mild crush on him since she was fifteen, and it had simmered beneath the surface of her skin for the next decade. In fact, Beth figured it had only grown with every new movie he starred in and every magazine he appeared across the pages of.

To be in the position that she now found herself was as daunting as it was exciting. If she had any hope whatsoever of representing the actor properly, Beth needed to set her juvenile crush aside and focus on what was best for Daryl as an individual. If Beth happened to be able to spend a lot of time gazing at him when he wasn't looking while she did so, then so much the better for her.

Rick was waiting at the end of the brightly lit hallway as she exited the elevator, and Beth sighed in relief when she no longer had to navigate the building alone.

"It's so good to see you! Thank you so much for doing this, Beth!" Rick sighed out as she approached, reaching his arms out to pull her into a bear hug. Beth returned the gesture with equal fervor, his comforting scent of baby powder and soap as familiar as it ever was.

The two had known each other for several years, as Rick had helped her get her first client: an on-the-brink artist who had had a lot of enthusiasm but not so much talent. Beth was ever grateful to him for giving her his contacts and using his connections to help her out, and she had often volunteered to watch his son while he and his wife had tried to work things out. The attempt had been unsuccessful, but she had gained dear friends in the process, and had been flattered by the crush that Rick's son, Carl, had developed on her while she did so. They were good people, and Beth had always had infinite time and energy for good people.

"It's me who should be thanking you!" Beth exclaimed, following Rick's lead as he stepped through the arched doorway.

The older man hastily fled from her field of vision to head up the cast iron staircase, and Beth took advantage of his absence to explore the spacious loft.

To Beth, the living space was masculine but not overtly so. It was industrial: exposed brick walls, stainless steel appliances, and dark wood beams. Sleek black leather couches were offset by the natural light that flooded in through a rear wall composed entirely of windows. Beth practically salivated as she stroked a hand over a flannel throw blanket, gazing out the window into the jades and emeralds of Central Park in summertime.

The loft was utilitarian, everything having a purpose as well as a place with very little clutter and few knickknacks to speak of. _This man,_ Beth realized _, is either very strict about cleanliness or lives here very rarely. This place doesn't look lived-in at all._

As she perused the living room, she noticed only two personal relics, and she remarked that they were the only ones she had seen in the whole place. The first was a small bookshelf tucked into the far corner of the room, a home for several dusty volumes that appeared to be well-loved. Her eyes skirted over the titles briefly, recognizing several authors that she was familiar with herself: Hemingway, Lee, and Salinger. The spines of his copies were broken, the pages yellowed with age. Beth wondered how many times Daryl Dixon had reread the tomes, filled his mind with stories of bananafish and old men who've lost themselves simply by living. She wondered about Daryl Dixon in general, about what kind of man would think to file _Brave New World_ and _Beowulf_ next to _Fight Club_.

Moving from her perch in front of the bookcase, the second personal memento caught her attention: a pristine crossbow hanging along the wall opposite the flat-screen TV. Beth knew next to nothing about weapons—though she had lived on a farm, Beth was never allowed to slaughter the animals or go out hunting with her father and brother—but she could easily see that this man treated that crossbow like a violin needing constant tuning and attention.

"Didn't anyone tell ya that snoopin' is rude?" A grizzly voice asked from over her shoulder, startling her. Beth whirled around, suddenly face-to-face with the object of her fascination: Daryl Dixon.

If consulted on the matter, Beth Greene would not have said that she fell in lust with Daryl Dixon at first sight. However, this was only because she had seen him for the first time almost a decade earlier in an issue of _GQ_. She had purchased the magazine solely for his spread of photos, and since that day had only ever permitted herself to hang a single photograph of him on her wall. She had been quietly captivated by Daryl ever since.

She was familiar with his face, of course; the sleek lines of his cheekbones and jaw, the rough stubble that shadowed his face and highlighted the softness of his mouth, the smooth slope of his nose. Beth had looked upon his face a million times before, and yet it was as if she were seeing him with new eyes as she took in his three-dimensional, living, breathing form.

It was his eyes in particular, a startlingly vivid blue, that were a surprise. They were too sharp, too wary to inspire lust in Beth's belly as they often did in his photos. They were deep-set and feline, framed by sooty lashes the same colour as the hair that fell across his forehead. They seemed to be able to see right through her, their steady gaze penetrating and unsettling. His eyes had certainly never before had that effect when she beheld them on the poster in her bedroom. Their intensity had a blush burning across her cheeks, her skin suddenly too tight against her bones.

"Didn't your mama ever teach ya not to sneak up on people?" Beth demanded, running a hand through her sunny blonde locks in a flustered gesture.

Daryl's eyes narrowed to slits, his lips pursed in consideration. "You must be the new publicist that Rick's wrangled up."

Beth nodded, giving him her best and brightest smile before holding out her hand for him to shake. "Beth Greene. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The actor didn't return the gesture, simply nodded and jerked his head toward the eating area behind him. "Rick's ordering pizza. You can join us, if you want. We'll discuss terms and negotiate an employment contract after we eat."

Beth's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Don't you want to interview me first? Check to make sure that I'm not just a stalker who poses as a publicist in order to get into the inner circles of celebrities and post inappropriate pictures of them on social media?"

The corners of Daryl's mouth quirked up in a lopsided smirk, the gesture pairing with the curious tilt of his head to make Beth's heart beat just a bit faster than it already was. " _Are_ you a stalker who poses as a publicist in order to get into the inner circles of celebrities and post inappropriate pictures of them on social media?"

"No! Of course not!" Beth exclaimed, her eyes wide in horror.

Daryl nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer, while his gaze burned into her flesh as if he could read all of her secrets in the fine grain of her skin. "Then I'll hold you at your word, and you'll have no issue from me."

The older man turned on his heel and headed toward the door, where Rick was struggling to carry the pizza box while maintaining the phone call he was making. Daryl's bare feet were soundless against the dark floors, and the blonde couldn't help but recognize that very few of her clients would ever think to meet with their publicist without shoes on. Beth also couldn't help but admire the way the threadbare white t-shirt he wore clung to the cut of his biceps and shoulders, the snug fit of his worn jeans against his hips.

 _Yes, Daryl Dixon is a beast of a different breed,_ Beth acknowledged as she tucked her chair into the aged cherry wood table where Rick was dishing out slices of pizza. _He's certainly nothing like I ever imagined him to be._

Beth couldn't find it within herself to hide her smile as she imagined the prospect of unravelling the enigma of Daryl Dixon bit-by-bit, getting past the surly exterior to whatever lay beneath. When said enigma caught her grinning like an idiot, eyes narrowed in suspicion, she simply took another bite of pizza, chewing until he looked away and she could continue her train of thought in relative safety.


	2. II: I Kinda Wanna Be More Than Friends

Hello everyone! Thanks for the kindness after my first chapter of Desperate Measures. Here's chapter 2! The same rules apply. I don't own anything recognizable. There's a 3 month time skip in this one.

Desperate Measures

Chapter II: I Kinda Wanna Be More Than Friends (So Take It Easy On Me)

The girl was damn good at her job.

During their two hour dinner meeting, she had managed to come up with a believable explanation for Daryl's troublesome bout of violence that was so convincing that Daryl almost believed it himself. Within that same week, she was also able to engineer three fan events for Daryl to attend in the next six months, and interviews with two reputable magazines before the October release of his new movie.

Over the next three months, the blonde continued to fill the position with admirable skill, and Daryl couldn't deny that her presence was a positive one in his life. She was a hummingbird, moving at the speed of light and bursting with energy. Beth was always working, always thinking about his next move or his future goals. She never stopped, never felt the need to slow down or wait for him to catch up. She simply expected him to keep pace with her, and the actor found it increasingly difficult to be annoyed by her ever-present effervescence because it was so infectious.

He never felt like he was a marionette on strings, his own life held in the grasp of someone else. Beth made sure that he consented to every event she planned, every interview and audition that she scheduled.

Daryl also appreciated the fact that she was scarily talented at diffusing dating rumours, and he was finding himself in a constant state of uneasy gratitude towards the little blonde thing—not that he would ever admit that to her.

Daryl was also finding it increasingly difficult to endure the spark of attraction that lit a fire in his stomach whenever he was around her. He knew it was a bad idea; it was the king of bad ideas. The girl must be at least a decade younger than him—if not more—and she undoubtedly had a boyfriend to call her own already: some pretty boy named Zack who worked in marketing and went to college like every other jock from the Upper East Side. Surely Beth wasn't interested in some redneck actor who was verging on forty and preferred the company of his crossbow to those of his own species.

Yet, he never failed to hope that she would be as he watched her flit about his loft on the phone with venues or casting directors, the heels of her boots clicking against the tiled floor. She was a light-bringer, the swing of her blonde ponytail a beam of sunlight in his world of shadows. He felt like a teenager whenever she caught him staring at her, flashing him one of her characteristic hundred-watt smiles as his ears turned red at the tips. Daryl would grumble for a few seconds, pretending to read or clean his crossbow, until she returned to her work and Daryl could return to his new favourite pastime: admiring Beth Greene's legs.

The girl had legs for days and an ass that wouldn't quit, and he loved that she chose to show them off in flirty dresses that fluttered with the slightest breeze or skinny jeans that hugged every curve. She didn't have many to speak of, being thin and lean, but Daryl didn't miss them when he was around her.

He especially didn't miss them on days like this one, when she was leading him around a television studio in a summery yellow sundress, looking as sweet as you please. He got cavities looking at her, the willow-like quality of her limbs and the grace with which she carried herself through the brightly lit hallways fairy-like in their delicacy.

She tugged on his arm impatiently when she noticed he had slowed to admire her, pulled him into his dressing room. The room was scarcely furnished, obviously intended for numerous guests, but it was cool and had a minibar. Daryl admitted that he could have settled for a lot less.

He sat himself in front of the makeup mirror, realizing that he was probably going to be primped and powdered before he would be allowed anywhere near a camera. He was used to it by now; it was practically routine, but that didn't have to mean that he enjoyed it. As it was, his stylist—Daryl grimaced at the term—Michonne had refused to let him leave his apartment in anything that was unworthy of the public eye.

Daryl tugged at the collar of his pewter button-down, the skinny tie he wore restricting the amount of movement the jerking motion actually gave him. He resented the fact that it felt like a dog collar, restraining him and civilizing him.

"Stop tugging on your shirt. You look great. The girls will love you," Beth insisted, grabbing his hand from where it rested against his neck and squeezing it in her own. The warmth of her hand surprised Daryl, the pleasant pulse it sent up his arm even more so.

At her comment, Daryl snorted indignantly but made no comment. He could have cared less what anyone thought of his appearance. He did, however, stop fussing with his shirt. What he didn't do was let go of her hand. He couldn't figure out why, except for that he liked his infinitely better when hers was in it.

"Now, remember. Stay away from answering questions that involve spoilers for the movie, and don't feel obligated to answer any that are of a personal nature. If it feels wrong to you, just avoid the question. I know that they gave you a vague idea about what they were going to ask you, but interviews tend to get off topic very quickly," she informed him, releasing his hand to straighten his tie. He didn't know which gesture was more intimate.

"I know the drill." As she leaned in to fix the accessory, he could feel her warm breath on his face, the soft floral scent of her hair, and a flush rose swiftly up his neck to his cheeks at her nearness. He sincerely hoped that she didn't notice.

"I'm sure you do, Mr. Dixon. I regret to inform you, however, that it's my job to cover all the bases. I need to make sure that you're protected against the things that could hurt you."

Raising his eyebrows, Daryl caught her wrist in his fingers as she tried to back away, keeping her in place against him. He could hear her breath catch, her eyes widening in surprise.

It often caught him off guard, how blue her eyes were. It was like he was falling into the sky with his feet planted firmly on the ground. As he stared into them now, he saw intrigue in their depths, curiosity.

"You gonna protect me, Greene? No one's been able to do it yet," he murmured, his voice taking on a gravelly gruffness that he recognized as his warning tone. He used it only when people in his life were getting too close for comfort, too close to knowing him for who he was and not just what he wanted them to believe he was.

Beth smiled in that alarmingly sweet way of hers, her prettily painted lips full and inviting. "You've never had me at your back before. I'm strong. I'll have anyone who looks at you the wrong way quivering in their boots before they can blink."

Judging by the ruthless way in which she took control of a rowdy crowd at fan events, Daryl believed her. However, he also knew that she had other clients, and he tried not to take the sentiment personally. He was certain that she was just as dedicated to all of those under her care, though who they were she never revealed. He couldn't help but wonder if the way that she leaned in just a little on those towering skinny heels, the way she tucked her lip between her teeth as she stared at him, meant that maybe she wanted to be there just for him. Surely he could not claim that to be true for just anyone that she worked for.

Perhaps it was the way she took the slightest step into the gap between his legs that made him want to grab her hips, draw her into him. Maybe it was the quiet tremor in her fingers as they rested against his collarbones, pale and lovely. Maybe it was just her. Either way, he wanted that physical connection with her in a way that he hadn't with anyone else before.

Before he could act on his impulse, the makeup artist that he had been waiting for burst through the door and shooed Beth from the room, telling her to take a message to the producers that it would only be another minute. With a murmured assent, Beth headed out, leaving him with a small smile that lingered with him even after she had gone.

 _Daryl Dixon cleaned up nice,_ Beth admitted to herself. Not that she hadn't known before—because Lord knew that she did—but seeing him like that in the flesh was a completely different experience.

She liked the way that he moved, predatory and panther-like even in a tie and dress shoes. Beth often found herself comparing him to big cats, and she figured that it must have been the way he slinked and swaggered around that brought a preening jaguar to mind. She didn't know why the thought was so appealing, or why it instantly brought thoughts of him stretching lazily across rumpled sheets to mind. She wondered why she could vividly imagine what Daryl Dixon looked like after a good romp: sweaty skin glistening, eyes closed to slits with sexual satisfaction, and a smirk of pure male contentment plastered on his face.

Startled at the inappropriate train of thought, Beth shook her head to clear it. She was here to do a job, and that job was not staring at the way his pants stretched so invitingly over his thighs as he sat in the upholstered chair across from the interviewer. She tried not think about the obnoxiously loud fans who would give anything to be in her position, who would tear her limb from limb if it meant a chance with Daryl. She tried to ignore the grim satisfaction that she got from acknowledging that she knew him like so few others did. Apart from Rick, she was probably the closest person to him. Beth imagined that her position was fairly enviable in that regard.

With her lip between her teeth, she watched as the interviewer tried to pry answers from Daryl that were not his to give, and she smiled proudly as he shook each question off in an eloquent fashion.

"He's a good learner," Rick muttered, appearing over her shoulder and making her jump. She had known that Rick was in the building, of course. He seemed to be attached to Daryl's hip most days. She liked the man, had learned to respect him greatly for all that he did for Daryl.

"Looks like it," Beth agreed. Her eyes didn't leave the television screen, however, and Rick noticed her absentee attention.

"He's one of the strongest people I've ever known. The shit that he's been through, the hardships he faced… I couldn't have even imagined what his life was like if I hadn't been there to see it myself," he lamented, rubbing a hand over his perpetual scruff. Beth noticed that it was growing out into a beard again, and she feared that he was worrying too much about others to care much about his facial hair. She didn't much mind the grizzly look, but to her his beard had begun to be a gauge of his ability to take care of himself.

Beth's brow furrowed, tearing her eyes from Daryl's two-dimensional image to turn her gaze to Rick's. "Why are you tellin' me this?"

Rick smiled in that kind-hearted way of his, and Beth imagined that he often used the same smile when he was trying to impart wisdom on his children. "I wouldn't be able to live with two children if I didn't have fairly decent powers of observation. I see how you look at him. You want more with him than your current business relationship permits."

Beth flushed, turned her face away from his scrutiny. She sometimes wished that her face wasn't so transparent; her lack of guile often got her into sticky situations. _God, did her cheeks have to feel so hot? And when did her skin get so tight?_ "That's ridiculous. It would be totally unprofessional and cause irreparable damage to both my reputation and his. I would never ask that of him."

"Try those lines on someone who hasn't known you since you were a teenager. Beth, I'm not trying to give you advice or convince you to do anything. I'm just giving you the facts. Daryl is one of the most honourable and decent men that I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, but his childhood and adolescence seemed determined to knock those qualities out of him. He's got walls—and walls for those walls—as a result. A relationship with him wouldn't be easy. I just want you to be prepared for what you would be getting into."

Beth turned to him then, a sad smile on her lips. "I'm a big girl, Rick. I appreciate your advice, but if there's ever going to be a relationship between Daryl and I, I have to hear those things from him. You're his best friend, and I am so grateful that you are in his life. I know you would do anything for him. In this matter, however, he has to figure out how he feels all on his own. If he is interested in pursuing a relationship with me, he will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a temperamental redneck to retrieve."

Brushing a kiss across Rick's cheek, she left for the green room where she would await Daryl's return from the stage. She could hear the fans screaming from the hallway outside the room, and she couldn't imagine what an ego boost it must be to have so many fans begging for one's attention.

She wasn't there for two minutes before a very flustered Daryl Dixon stormed into the green room. He seemed to take up all the space in the room, and she suddenly felt as if he were too close, even though he was halfway across the room from her. He seemed to dominate whatever environment he found himself in, and Beth found herself questioning what it was about Daryl that was so captivating to her. Perhaps it was the way his eyes were always assessing, always observing. The scorching blue of them behind his tousled hair always gave her a thrill in her tummy. Or maybe it was the aura that he gave off, that he was dangerous but only enough so to be intriguing. Beth didn't know, but she was certainly game to find out.

He had been staring expectantly at her for several seconds before she realized that he had asked her a question and she had completely missed it. His eyebrows were raised in the impatient manner that he took when he was kept waiting for no apparent reason.

"I'm sorry, what?" Beth stuttered, running a hand over her smooth blonde ponytail.

"I asked you how the interview went. Any slip-ups on my part?" Daryl's voice was lazily interested, and Beth could guess that he only asked because it amused him to see her reactions.

Beth smiled warmly, shook her head. "All clear. However, I did find it rather amusing that the interviewer flirted with you on national television while in front of hundreds of people."

Daryl's ears darkened at the tips, his cheeks going rosy beneath his dark tan and fringe of bangs. He averted his gaze, avoiding her eyes as he took a sudden interest in his boots. "No, she didn't."

Beth scoffed, raising her eyebrows. In a daring move she hoped she wouldn't live to regret, Beth sauntered over to where Daryl was lounging against the wall. His gaze was wary as she advanced, but not in a way that made her feel unwelcome. When she was close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers, she wrapped her hand around the width of his bicep and squeezed it flirtatiously. The muscle was firm in her grasp, and she stroked a finger delicately along the inside of his arm to feel it flex.

His eyes had snapped to hers the moment she had touched him, and they bore into hers with an intensity that reached her bones. His stare was wholly captivating, and she was a rabbit under the snake's spell. She couldn't have moved if she wanted to.

She continued to stroke his arm, looking up at him from underneath her eyelashes in the most innocent manner she could muster up. She had only the advanced warning of a shallowing of his breath before she was treading back into the wall on her stiletto heels, her hands gripping his biceps into order to keep herself upright as she teetered.

Beth could feel the cool wall at her back, the contrast of the warmth of his skin and muscles in her hands making her shiver in delight. His warm breath fanned her face, making the stray hairs that were falling out of her ponytail flutter in the breeze. Those heartbreakingly blue eyes were penetrative in their intensity, and Beth felt her heart _thump_ a bit harder in her chest as she maintained eye contact.

Daryl was too close, yet wasn't nearly close enough. She wanted to lean against him like a cat on a scratching post, bury her face in the centre of his chest just to see if she could absorb his stability, his vitality, into her skin through osmosis.

"She did this to you how many times, and you still think she wasn't flirting?" Beth breathed, her fingers sliding across the smooth fabric once again.

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, waiting for him to react. She had become intensely aware of his legs situated between hers, the minimal distance between the jut of his hipbones and the smooth cradle of hers.

His voice, when it came, was a deep grumble. His eyes crinkled at the corners in the way that they did when he had something important to say. "She didn't mean anythin' to me. I didn't notice it."

Beth was taken aback. She had wanted him to confirm that what she was feeling wasn't one-sided for so long, and he was avoiding her eyes and sucking on his lip in a way that made her think that this was all the confirmation that she would get for now. She took it.

Heart in her throat and precocious hope in her eyes, she made the leap. "Do you wanna get a drink with me?"


	3. III: Show Me Your Animal

A/N: Thank you for everyone who has stuck around for this story. I really appreciate the love. I don't own any of the recognizable material, and I apologize for any mistakes.

Desperate Measures

Chapter III: Show Me Your Animal

"I say somethin' I've never done, and if you've done it, you drink. If you haven't, I drink. Then we switch. Got it?" Beth uttered over the soft jazz that lamented from a speaker above their heads.

Daryl narrowed his eyes warily, his eyebrows bent low on his forehead. "What are we, teenagers? I ain't ever needed a game to get lit before."

Beth shrugged, her sunny blonde hair now hanging loose on her shoulders. Her signature braided strand was tucked behind her ear. "I never played drinking games when I was younger, either. My daddy would've skinned my hide if he'd found out I'd played one. He was never good at knowing his limit. Usually he'd found his at the bottom of a bottle. It took a long time for him to get himself right again, and I never wanted to risk givin' him a reminder of the oblivion that he was missin'."

Daryl nodded, empathetic. He remembered Rick speaking of the old man Greene, along with the quaint farmhouse that he'd tended for half a century. Rick had many fond memories of being around the Greene place, having brought Carl over there often when he'd needed a babysitter. Daryl had never heard the end of how delicious the peaches were on the grounds.

Along with the good, he also recalled the unfortunate accident that took Hershel Greene's life: a tragic barn fire that ripped the Greene family apart. Rick had gone to Senoia for the funeral and had stayed there for a week. Daryl had remained in New York, thinking that he would bring attention to a quiet man's life that wasn't desired. He had heard fragments of the affair from Rick when he'd returned; Maggie, the eldest sister, had been torn up with grief and her sister, Beth, had tried to commit suicide in the days after.

Now, sitting across from her in a seedy bar on the Lower West Side, Daryl could see the faint, silvery scar that lined her wrist. The original cut hadn't been deep, he knew. If it had been, the scar would have been red and raw and ugly. A flash of his own torso in the back of his mind made the image startlingly clear. Daryl was grateful that she had been spared such a marring.

The older man wondered how this girl, so lively and warm and energetic, could ever have entertained the thought of taking her own life. He wondered if she even know how effervescent she was, how bright his world was with her in it. She was Eos, and he couldn't help his desire to bask in her light.

Realizing he was staring a little too deeply at her as she sipped her cocktail—she'd called it a Sex on the Beach, heaven help him, and the way she wrapped her pretty lips around the straw made him salivate—Daryl shook his head to clear it. "You go first, since this was your idea."

Beth seemed to consider for a moment, twirling the little umbrella in her drink with the tips of her pointer finger and thumb. Her lips pursed in thought, and Daryl wanted to smirk at how seriously she was taking this.

"I've never… had sex in a public place," she declared, her cheeks flushing rosily from the alcohol and her own embarrassment. The actor thought it was the most fascinating shade of pink he had ever seen, and he perspired thinking about how far down it spread.

Daryl felt her assessing gaze on his face, those damned blue eyes so doe-like and curious, and the wings of his cheekbones warmed as he grabbed his glass, took a swig of scotch. Beth _guffaw_ ed in unrestrained laughter at his response, gripping the table in order to keep herself upright.

"Where?" she demanded, leaning eagerly forward on her elbows as if she wanted to absorb the answer with her entire body. Daryl caught a whiff of the perfume at the base of her neck, something citrusy and summery that reminded him of home.

Swallowing his pride yet again, he grumbled, "The Met."

"You had sex in the Met?" Beth exclaimed, her eyes impossibly wide and her smile just as full. She was loving this, Daryl could tell. He wanted to shrivel into a ball on the floor, but if it pleased her he would suffer it gladly because of course innocent Beth Greene with the porcelain doll skin and the _fuck me_ legs would cut straight to the sexual stuff.

"Keep your voice down. Don't need anyone hearing that and spreading it to the paps," Daryl growled, taking another gulp of liquor to fortify his own self-restraint.

Beth reached across the table and patted his cheek, emboldened by whatever the hell was in that drink. Daryl didn't know if he should ban the stuff from ever crossing her lips again or encourage it even further. "Your secret's safe with me, Mr. Dixon. I won't tell another living soul—just my diary."

Daryl rolled his eyes, shook his head bemusedly. If she wanted to embarrass him, Daryl could damn well return the favour. "My turn. I've never… faked an orgasm."

It was Beth's turn to blush in earnest before taking a deep pull on her straw. Delighted by her reaction, Daryl mirrored her pose and pressed forward, their faces now only inches apart. The smirk that he had been trying to tame before was in full force, and his interest was piqued. His eyebrows raised in question.

Beth's nose wrinkled as she recalled what Daryl hoped to be hilariously embarrassing stories of sex-gone-wrong. She didn't disappoint. "The first time I'd ever had sex, I had to fake it because he was just as inexperienced as I was and I didn't want to discourage him. It was in the back of his truck while we were parked by a lake near his house, and it was merely a coincidence that he even had an orgasm, so that venture was really a moot point. The most noteworthy example of orgasm-fakin' was when I was twenty and goin' with a good boy. You know, one who called his grandparents once a week and never went to bed naked. He thought he was the prodigal son of Aphrodite, and I could hardly tell him that he wasn't if I hoped for anythin' to come out of it at all. In reality, it was just so bad. He gave tongue baths and obviously didn't know what a clitoris was, so I faked it like the best of 'em and never went back for seconds."

Daryl nearly spit out his drink at her story, her blunt tone and frank attitude enough to make his eyes widen in surprise.

"What?" Beth asked innocently, her lips teased up at the corners and her eyelashes fluttering. "You didn't think I had it in me to fake an orgasm?"

Daryl avoided her eyes as he swirled the drink in his tumbler. His ears were feeling warm again, even though objectively he had nothing to be embarrassed about. They were talking about her sex life, not his. "Just didn't think any guy would be idiot enough to take you on and then leave you…unsatisfied. Seems like a shitty thing to do."

Beth shrugged, agitating her straw with the tip of her pinky finger. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes in a way that made his palms sweat and drew her lush bottom lip between her teeth. Daryl's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the motion, his libido begging him to replace her teeth with his own.

"Maybe they just couldn't handle me," Beth murmured suggestively, unfazed by his undoubtedly blatant staring. Her hot baby blues beckoned, blazed, burned.

A wave of heat moved over Daryl's skin when he realized that she was offering him the challenge if he was up for it. The tightening in his jeans suggested that he was more than willing to oblige her.

Their eyes held contact for a moment, both of them not saying anything. Her stare was charged, and he wanted to speak but his tongue was as dry as sandpaper. Cheeks ablaze, Beth broke the silence in her flustered way: inane chatter. "It's my turn again. I've never… gotten so drunk that I've done something I regretted."

 _No_ , Daryl decided. He wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily. He took his obligatory swig of booze—the glass was all but empty now—but held her pinned under his gaze like a butterfly behind glass.

It seemed as if he was going to have to make the next move if he hoped to continue their earlier conversation or relieve the tension he felt in his belly. If she wanted something from him, he was willing to give it; he just had to know that he was who she wanted, what he could give her was what she desired. He admitted that he could fuck her and they would both walk away satisfied, but he could sense that she wasn't that girl. Unfortunately he had, for the majority of his life, been that guy.

Gritting his teeth and wishing for more scotch, Daryl set his glass aside and made the offer. "There's vodka back at my place. We could change that, if you wanted to."

Beth smiled sweetly, her eyes suddenly warm and mercurial. It unnerved him that sometimes she stared at him as if he held the secrets to the universe when all he could see in himself were questions.

Reaching across the table, Beth took his hands in her soft ones. His rough fingers swallowed hers, her smooth skin ivory against his sun-darkened skin tone. With a gentle squeeze, Beth stroked her thumb over the little tattoo on his right hand. "It wouldn't change anything, Daryl. But I'd love to—without the vodka, that is. I mean, if you're still up for it."

Surprised and aroused in equal measure, Daryl hailed the waitress for the cheque.

Beth Greene was in love.

Not with Daryl Dixon. No. Not yet, anyway. The blonde had to admit that the prospect didn't offend her one bit, though she imagined Daryl would jump like a scalded cat if she ever brought the idea up.

No. Beth Greene was in the love with the sheets that currently cocooned her in a swaddle of silk, light as air yet substantial enough to wrap her in warmth. Against her bare skin, the sunlight flooding in from the uncovered window was warm and inviting.

The spot in bed beside her was empty, and she wasn't at all surprised. It was his damn apartment, after all. Daryl could do what he wanted in his apartment. However, that didn't stop the little flutter of disappointment that rose in her stomach as she stroked a hand over the empty pillow beside hers.

 _No_ , Beth amended herself. _It's not yours. You're just using it._

Sitting up in bed and clutching the sheets to her chest, Beth scanned the room.

It was just as utilitarian as the rest of the apartment, the navy blue bedding the only coloured accent to speak of. The dark wood that dominated the lower floor appeared again in his bedroom, the headboard and dressers sleek and serviceable.

Her favourite part was the single photograph on his nightstand: a panoramic shot of a crowded stadium done in black and white. The frame was a simple brushed steel rectangle that was as streamlined as the rest of his décor. She didn't recognize the venue in the photo, but she imagined it must have made quite an impression on him for him to react in such a sentimental way. Beth Greene had an inkling that Daryl Dixon was not a sentimental man by nature.

Slipping from beneath the sheets with a wistful sigh, the blonde sifted determinedly through the clothes on his bedroom floor. She found nothing that would cover her top half, images of her dress being tossed across Daryl's living room while she shoved her tongue into his mouth rising to the forefront of her memory. The thought gave her tingles, and she found that she had a spring in her step as she moved to his closet and pulled a sleeveless plaid shirt from its hanger.

The fabric smelled like him, smoke and wood and musk. Beth found that she smelled of him too, her skin and hair absorbing it after his constant contact with them. She liked the way that it integrated so well with her own scent, the two mingling to create something so much the better for their melding.

Buttoning up the shirt—the soft material fell past the tops of her thighs, and she was left wondering how much taller than her he actually was—she padded barefoot out of his bedroom and down the staircase.

The scent of coffee drifted to her nose as she reached the main floor. She followed it to the kitchen, where she was met with a half-naked Daryl Dixon making pancakes. Her eyes fell instantly on his back as he bent over a skillet, the sun burnished slopes of his shoulders marred with the darkened slashes of his scars.

Beth had known about them, of course. To the public, they were a result of a bad motorcycle accident. The fans knew of a tragedy, but they saw it as a story of a mishap while a badass was doing badass things. It was the image that Daryl wanted to portray, and he was successful at maintaining it. He never said a word that might compromise the lie's integrity.

It was only those closest to Daryl that knew the truth of them, knew that his father had beat him with the edge of his belt and had felt no remorse after doing so. When she had found out from Rick, Beth had said nothing to relay her sympathy, her compassion. When she had returned home that evening, she had cried her eyes out for the little boy who never had the chance to be one. Beth had never told Daryl – and for that matter never planned to—but the next time she had seen him, the blonde had seen in his eyes the knowledge that was held between them.

His stark awareness of her had made her nervous, as if he could see her secrets in her eyes and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Beth knew that he would never confront her about her knowledge—he didn't speak enough to warrant wasting his words on such things—but it was always at the back of her mind that he might not have wanted her to know what forms his demons took. She had always wondered if he deemed her worthy of his trust, his backstory.

Now, as he flipped pancakes from frying pan to plate, unfazed by her presence – she didn't believe for a minute that he hadn't heard her trample down the stairs—she couldn't make herself doubt her worthiness. He had let her feel the lovely expanse of muscle and nerve endings beneath her fingertips, drag her nails over the surface as if he were the only stable thing in a world of turbulence. She had grazed the raised tissue that created the topography of his back, the smooth plains of skin along his sides when her thighs had been rucked up around them, with an abandon that spoke of a trust she knew he had with few others.

Not wanting to intrude on his space—she wasn't quite sure how to handle the awkward morning-after scenario that she had just walked into, and getting cozy with Daryl seemed to guarantee more awkwardness—Beth hopped onto the black marble countertop, crossing her ankles in a measured attempt at decency when wearing no undergarments.

She happily watched him pour batter into the skillet, flipping the pancakes when they bubbled at the top. She couldn't help her grin of delight when she heard a grumbled curse leave his lips as the pancake he turned happened to be burnt on the bottom. At that moment, domestic Daryl Dixon became one of her favourite versions of her client. It would never beat naked and moaning Daryl Dixon, but it was certainly up there. The sheer contrast of his toned, lithe body with the spatula he held in his hand and the homey scent of cooking batter left her stunned. She hadn't realized that Daryl could be domestic, or that he would go to such trouble for her when he could have sent her on her way.

Lost in her thoughts, Beth didn't notice the plate being waved under her nose until she had practically put her face in it. The food look delicious, the man offering it even better. Daryl's eyes were sleepy, the lids drooping low over his irises so that they appeared more feline than usual. His hair was tousled from her fingers, the long locks curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

The purple blotch on the wing of his collarbone made her smile. She had never given a man a hickey before. It pleased her that she had left a mark on him, a physical reminder of what had manifested between them. Looking at it made her want to leave more of them where no one but they would see them, like on the jut of his hipbones or the base of his spine.

She could hardly believe that she had had this man writhing beneath her wandering mouth only hours before, heard his growl against her mouth as her hips bucked against his. She had fucked Daryl Dixon, the actor lusted after by millions of fans internationally, and she'd be damned if she wouldn't do it again while she could.

"Hungry, girl?" Daryl asked, placing the plate in her waiting hands.

Inspired, Beth set the plate down on the counter beside her. Taking his face gently between her palms, her eyes asking permission even as she edged closer, she purred a single word against his mouth. "Yes."

Her kiss was fastidious, a clash of teeth and lips that stirred her immeasurably. It hardly resembled their kisses from the previous evening, and Beth was overjoyed that they had come so far in such a short period of time.

Daryl had been meek when they had first come together, hesitant that he wouldn't please her and therefore shy to do anything at all. Beth had had to tease the animal out of him, knowing that he was capable of ravaging her, ravishing her. She had taken the lead, pressing him against his own front door with the force of her mouth as he fumbled to lock it behind them.

That had been all it took for him to adopt her eagerness, her urgency. After that it had been frantic, mouths and hands seeking rough and fast pleasure in any way that they could manage it.

Thinking back to it, Beth couldn't even fathom how they had made it up the stairs to his bed.

Their embrace now much resembled their earlier coupling, and she wondered if the fire they had between them would ever fizzle out. As her fingers tangled in his hair, keeping him close against her even as her legs parted to make room for him, she thought not. The motion caused the flannel shirt to ride up her thighs even as Daryl's hands followed their path.

He was emboldened now, his mouth adventurous and inquisitive as his hands stroked over the curve of her hips to jerk her closer. Her arms folded over his shoulders, keeping her torso against his even as her legs crossed behind his back.

Daryl's mouth broke from hers to trail down the slope of her neck, dipping into the collar of his shirt. The scruff on his jaw ignited the sensitive skin there, and she arched into his hold as if to better absorb the sensation.

Breathing heavily, Beth made a vague gesture toward the plates of uneaten flapjacks. "What about the food? It'll get cold."

Daryl's teeth sunk teasingly into her shoulder, the flannel having slipped down her arm in their haste. As he spoke against her skin, she shivered. "It'll heat up just fine."

Having said enough about the matter, Daryl gripped the hem of his shirt in his fists and pulled it over her head in one swift motion. He tossed it to the other end of the room, and Beth didn't have a moment to be indignant about being naked on his kitchen counter before he was laying her back against the cool marble and she could speak no longer.


	4. IV: The Only Rattling Cage is Mine

A/N: Oh my goodness. It's been a month since I've updated this, and I apologize for that. I hope this chapter doesn't seem too strange after the last one, but I felt like some angst was necessary. Again, none of the recognizable stuff is mine.

Desperate Measures

Chapter IV: The Only Rattling Cage is Mine

A week passed, and they still hadn't talked about it. The thought of the discussion made the back of his neck itch, but he knew that they needed to have it.

After a third round in the shower and a fourth on his bedroom floor—he still had rug burns on his ass from being pressed into his discarded comforter while Beth straddled his hips—she had scrambled to dress and get home before they had to meet with Rick for a briefing about Daryl's upcoming interview with a popular magazine. They hadn't been alone together since.

His current position didn't help matters any. Makeup artists and lighting technicians swarmed around him as the photographer readied himself for the shoot at hand. Daryl could barely see Beth as she paced in the background, typing out an email on her phone.

It didn't help that the photographer insisted on blaring irritatingly peppy pop music while Daryl was trying to get his thoughts straight. The actor just wanted to lock himself in a room with Beth and be alone with her. He hadn't realized how much he missed the quiet moments with her until he hadn't had them anymore.

"You could try to look a little bit less like you're in pain. It might make this process a little easier," Michonne muttered, helping him into a faux-battered leather jacket.

Daryl sighed, shrugging his shoulders beneath the stiff material. "Just awkward is all."

Michonne frowned at him, smoothing her palms over his arms and straightened his lapels. The jacket was only one aspect of the rugged ensemble that she had put together for the photoshoot. In an effort to make him more comfortable, his stylist had incorporated elements of his own wardrobe into the clothes for the shoot. The worn boots and t-shirt were the only parts of his outfit that he really wanted to be wearing, but he suffered through the rest because he knew it meant a lot to Michonne.

"No. There's awkward, and then there's the glowering misery that you're sporting." Daryl rolled his eyes at her comment, shuffled about in his spot like he wished he were anywhere but there.

"I'm just saying that you might make everyone's life a little simpler if you would just cooperate. I know that this isn't your favourite thing in the world, but please. Behave, if only for the blonde that you've been making wounded-puppy eyes at for the past hour," Michonne murmured under her breath, winking at him as she stepped away for the photographer to take his place in front of Daryl.

Ears warming, Daryl avoided her gaze as she gave him a once over. "Don't know what the hell you're talkin' about."

The fierce woman nodded amicably from her stance at the sidelines, a rejected leather jacket draped over her arm. "Of course you don't."

The following two hours consisted of being prodded and directed by an increasing irritable photographer who insisted that his right side really was his better side, and that he was too short to do full-body shots. A headache was building behind his eyelids with every burst of flash, and he hadn't gotten a second to speak to Beth privately all day. Quite frankly, Daryl Dixon had had enough.

When the photographer suggested a shirtless photo for the article—they had captured the cover shot an hour ago—Daryl recoiled from the idea as if it were a snake coiled to strike. They had never created a written contract about what Daryl was comfortable with doing, and Daryl had only seen an overview of the feel of the shoot and what the photographer wanted to get from the photos. Beth had assured him that the photographer would not overstep his boundaries, and Daryl had not anticipated such a request.

He should have figured that they would want something of the sort from him—popular culture magazines always did—but he had hoped that they had gotten enough shots that they wouldn't have to ask for more than Daryl was willing to provide. His back was his own business. Daryl didn't trust the photographer enough to reveal the scars there to him, and he certainly didn't want a crowded studio full of people to see the extent of the damage done to his skin.

Realizing that the photographer was expecting an answer from him, Daryl shook his head mutely. He didn't speak for fear that once he did, his whole life story would come spewing out, and Daryl could not afford to suddenly start flapping his jaw. Of the twenty people in the crowded room, only three people knew the truth of how his scars had manifested on his torso: Rick, Michonne, and Beth. Daryl wanted to keep it that way.

As if thinking her name had manifested her in some weird Voldemort-style episode, Beth was suddenly strong-arming her way to his side amongst the set developers and lighting experts.

She was such a tiny thing, inches shorter than him in her flat boots, but her presence was impressive. Her shining blonde ponytail gleamed in the harsh stage lights, the top of her head fitting just beneath his chin as she stepped in front of him. It shouldn't have touched him as much as it did, that this woman was putting herself in the line of fire on his behalf. Always protective, Beth Greene was.

"You're making my client uncomfortable. If that sort of photograph was desired for the shoot, it should have been discussed and preapproved by either myself or his manager first, then followed by the consent of my client. As no such consent was given, I can't allow my client to go through with what you asked. If you continue to pester Daryl about it, I will revoke the rights for your magazine to use any of the photos taken today and you will have no cover story. Have I made myself clear?" Her crisp, clear voice was steely stern and, if Daryl hadn't known differently, he would have thought that Beth was more intimidating than anyone he had ever known.

The photographer nodded, raised his hands in surrender. His eyes were wide, as if he were surprised that someone so tiny could be so bold. Daryl wanted to smirk that a grown man had been bested by a woman a head shorter than him and wafer-thin, but he knew that to do so would be to undermine Beth's natural strength and stubbornness. Her physical size had nothing to do with that inner power—to bring her size into the equation would belittle her.

Beth turned to him then, a soft look in her eyes that made him think that he would hear more about this incident later. Her lips were pursed in concern, the soft pink colour of them making them appear plush and full. Instead of inspiring within him the urge to reveal his discomfort about the photographer's goals, her mouth only made him want to kiss her that much more.

Yes, they haven't talked about it. That didn't make Daryl Dixon want Beth Greene any less.

She gave him a small smile—not a full Beth Greene smile, but a little one—and tugged gently on the open zipper of his jacket. "Hang in there. You're almost finished, and the photos look great. Try smiling in one of them. You have a nice smile."

She lifted her pointer fingers to the corners of his mouth and lifted them in a faux-smile. "Like this."

"I know how to smile," Daryl grumbled, grabbing her hands in his own and pulling them down to her sides. It was more out of reflex than any desire to be out of her grasp. In truth, he liked it when she touched him gently, jokingly. He wasn't sure when he became so comfortable with her touch, but he couldn't imagine turning away from it now.

"Really? Wouldn't know it to look at you, grumpy pants. Now if you'll excuse me, I have the finishin' touches on your appearance at Monday's premiere to see to," Beth teased before turning on her heel to go back into the hoard of people.

"Beth, wait!" Daryl called, snagging her wrist between his fingers before she disappeared.

She turned her face to him, her ponytail swinging with the motion. Beth looked up at him expectantly, her eyes big and blue and curious. _Lord, he was in trouble._

"Can we talk later? You know, just the two of us?" The question was hesitant, as if he were encroaching too much into her life, into her schedule, by asking a few minutes of her time.

Beth considered him for a moment, her eyebrows bent in thought. Her gaze peered into his in that eerie way of hers, as though she could see his thoughts without having to voice them.

Seemingly grasping what he wanted to discuss, Beth nodded warily. "I'll be waiting outside when you're finished. Maybe we can get a coffee and go for a walk or something."

Daryl nodded, trying to stem his eagerness to be in her solitary presence and his relief at finally airing out the issue between them. "That sounds good."

The blonde nodded again in confirmation before pushing her way through the crowd once again, her lithe form quickly getting lost among the moving bodies.

"Oh, and Daryl?" Daryl heard her voice before he saw her stick her head out from among the set technicians that crowded a large umbrella.

He raised his eyebrows at her, waited.

A smile—a real, thousand-watt smile this time—crossed her lips as she uttered her next words. "If you dare mock my coffee order, I will cheerfully dump it into your lap and make you buy me another."

A bubble of laughter spilt from his lips at her pleasantly uttered threat, a grin splitting his cheeks for the first time that afternoon.

Just as Beth had desired, the photographer captured the expression on camera with a burst of blinding flash.

Proving that he wasn't a stupid man, Daryl Dixon kept his mouth shut when she placed her order with the barista at the closest coffee shop to the shoot's location.

The magazine had chosen to use a warehouse for the photoshoot because they thought it would be edgy and sexy. It was all about exposed steel supports, rusted beams, and stark concrete. They said the industrial background suited Daryl, the harshness of his persona and the wildness of his character.

Beth thought that it was typical and overdone, but it hadn't been her decision to make. If she had had her way, she would have chosen a location that was outside, somewhere lush and green and wild. She would have photographed him with his crossbow, out in his element. He was a hunter, and she wanted to capture that.

She had never seen him track anything, had only heard of his prowess from Rick. By her guess, Daryl didn't let anyone go with him. To let anyone near his beloved crossbow was out of the question. Now that she thought about it, she wondered why he hadn't hissed at her for breathing on his bow when they first met.

Now, as she made her way through High Line Park with the man, Beth could see the hunter in him. He had a serious walk, every movement measured and languid at the same time. Beth knew that every person who crossed his path, every stare that lingered on him was assessed for a threat.

Beth saw recognition flicker over some of the faces that they came upon, and she could sense Daryl tensing at her side whenever anyone's gaze lingered for too long, clearly trying to place where they had seen the handsome stranger before.

"Does it ever bother you, the being recognized and stopped on the street? Doesn't it make you feel like you have no anonymity, no privacy?" Beth asked as they continued down the shaded path.

She had to look up at his face as she walked, their height difference more apparent than usual as she strolled through the park in flat shoes. It never failed to amaze her how attractive he was, how magnetic his presence was to her. She loved being around him, loved how she felt when she was with him.

However, that delightful feeling of being better than herself was swiftly fading as she waited for him to breach the topic of discussion that she knew he wanted to hash out.

After their night—and morning—together, they hadn't been able to discuss the sudden shift in their relationship's dynamic. Their schedules had not permitted any extended amount of time alone, and in the hidden depths of Beth's mind, she was pleased that they hadn't been able to talk about it.

A sense of foreboding had writhed in the pit of her stomach since she had hastily fled his apartment in order to prepare herself for that stupid meeting with Rick. She had wanted to linger in his space, make him blush over coffee and cold pancakes. She had wanted more time with him.

Now she was faced with the aftermath of a one-night stand that had meant so much more than she had thought it would, and she was scared. Beth didn't want Daryl to tell her that he was satisfied with what they had and didn't need anything more. He didn't date, and she knew that. His relationships lasted no longer than a home manicure, and she didn't want to be another footnote on a list of unremarkable footnotes. She glumly recalled a parade of gorgeous brunettes and leggy redheads sprawled across the pages of trashy magazines, sneaking subtly out of a limousine behind Daryl.

Beth didn't want that for herself, and she knew as soon as she opened herself up about that night, any hope of it working itself out would be over. Beth respected herself too much to be just another girl to him, and she would rather put everything she felt for him behind her than degrade her emotions in a relationship that wouldn't satisfy her.

Maybe it was selfish, but she wanted his heart and his mind along with his body. She didn't want to put herself out there only to have her feelings be rejected. In Beth's mind, the longer she could put off having this conversation then the longer she could protect her heart from being trounced under his boot.

Beth snuck a guilty glance at him from the corner of her eye, ashamed of herself for having thought Daryl capable of doing such a thing to her. She was glad that he wasn't looking at her while she pondered their non-relationship; he could read her like a book, and she didn't want him to see the cold things she had just thought him capable of.

"Ya I guess it makes me uncomfortable sometimes. I'm still not used to my life bein' everyone else's business. I'm used to my own space, bein' alone and stuff, and havin' to share that with everyone else is something that I'm not okay with," Daryl muttered, adjusting the _Raybans_ that were perched on the bridge of his nose. Daryl wore those sunglasses like armour while he was out in public, as if covering his eyes and cheekbones would make him invisible.

Beth nodded, nibbling on her lower lip in contemplation. Beth had always known that he was reserved, but to hear him put his concerns into words made her realize that the implications of continuing a dalliance with him reached far beyond her own selfish desires. If word of their relations were ever to get to the press, his name would be splattered across the front pages of the tabloids and every reporter in the vicinity would want the scoop on his sex life. He wouldn't have any peace for weeks.

As his publicist, Beth was very aware of how important keeping secrets from the press was. Having always kept in mind how steadfast Daryl was about protecting his privacy, Beth had always been that much more motivated to preserve it. Taking that extra step with him had put all he held sacred in jeopardy, and she couldn't allow herself to do that again. Though the thought of it filled her with dread, Beth knew what she had to do.

Swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat, Beth tugged on the arm of his leather jacket as she pulled him off the pathway and into a secluded alcove. She gestured for him to sit down on the sheltered concrete bench while he stared curiously up at her through his fringe of dark bangs.

His cat-eyed stare always cut right through her, and their severity was no less astonishing on that grey afternoon in the park. His expression was harmless, but those eyes spoke of a wariness simmering steadily beneath the surface.

Beth took a deep breath before she spoke. "I think I know why you wanted to talk, and I think I should speak first."

Daryl nodded, cautious.

Her hands were shaking as she stood before him, and in that moment Beth would rather have stood in front of thousands of anonymous faces than one that she knew almost better than her own. Discreetly, Beth slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans before she continued her speech. "What happened last week—our night together— it can't happen again. It was unprofessional and reckless and stupid, and I can't let myself do anything that would be detrimental to your career. You're my client, and it would damage your reputation for you to be involved with me in a relationship that is anything other than strictly professional."

The man sitting before her didn't speak, cast his eyes to the ground as if the answer he was looking for was ingrained in the concrete between his boots. His shoulders were hunched over, his resting on his knees as if he were bracing himself against the siege of her words. The dark curtain of his hair cast his face even deeper into shadow, and Beth couldn't discern his expression from her vantage point.

Clenched fists hung between his legs, and his fingers flexed in a practiced motion that she recognized immediately as being one of discomfort and nervousness. _Good_ , Beth thought. _At least I'm not the only one who is not fine with how things are._

"Is that what you really think?" Daryl's voice was gruff, rumbling from his chest out into the air.

"That's what I know! I can't ask you to start anything with me when doing so would attract attention that you clearly don't want. Your dating life is already a hot commodity in the press, and I don't want to add any more drama to that sphere of your life," Beth stuttered out, surprised by the blunt nature of his question.

Daryl shook his head, pointedly dismissing her words. Rising to his full height, he met her gaze straight on. His shoulders blocked out the weak sunlight that streamed through the trees behind him. "Nah, that ain't it. If you really believed that, you wouldn't have slept with me in the first place. There's somethin' else, isn't there?"

Beth took a step back, feeling too crowded for her liking. He was too close. He was always too damn close for comfort. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. I said I couldn't do this, and I meant it. You'll thank me later."

He stepped into her again, the toes of his boots brushing hers. "I never much liked people doing things for my own good. I kinda like figurin' that out for myself."

His eyes were hellfire bright, and they burned into hers. She had only seen them like that once before: that night at the bar, when she had proposed the plans that had gotten them into this mess. His eyes had yearned for her then, and they did again now.

That yearning could only come from that broken place inside him that he never talked about, the blonde realized. It was too raw, too honest to stem from anything else. She knew that the openness she was experiencing from him now would not be afforded to her again after she threw it back at his feet like a dog might a dead bird. Beth also knew that the loss of it would rip her apart.

She was going to hurt him by protecting him, and he wouldn't forgive her for it. She wouldn't forgive herself for it either. That would be something that she would have to live with.

Tears budding in her eyes, she willed them not to fall. She didn't meet his gaze as she pieced her words together, praying that her voice didn't waver as she tore her own heart out and his along with it. "Don't make this more complicated than it needs to be. You don't date, and my conscience doesn't need the extra baggage that having a fling with my client would provide. We had one great night, and let's leave it at that. I'll email you the information about the premiere on Monday, and we'll reconvene Monday morning to make sure you're ready."

Feeling like she was putting the final nail in her coffin, Beth turned her back on him and strode away.

She felt the insistent brush of his fingers against her wrist as he tried to stop her from leaving, but she yanked it from his grasp before he could get a firm hold.

"Beth!" His tone was urgent as it reached her ears, but she was already too far gone. If she turned around she was lost, so she shook her head and prayed he wouldn't come after her. If he did, her resolve would crumble.

He didn't.

The tears began to fall in earnest as she hailed a cab from the sidewalk, mumbled her address to the driver before burying her face in her hands. The sobs wracked her shoulders, and they continued to do so even as she fumbled to unlock her apartment door.

Beth made it as far as her living room before her eyes were too blurry to help her navigate around her apartment any longer. Curling up into a ball on her couch, Beth cried until her eyes fell closed with exhaustion.

Her last thought was that doing the right thing shouldn't have to hurt so much.


End file.
